


Irresponsible

by apple_pi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Other, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 15:30:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7444396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fred and George’s flat was cluttered and generally smelt rather pleasantly of gunpowder and turpentine, the odd, comforting whiff of knotgrass or hellebore punctuating upon occasion. They’d once allowed someone in to clean but, as George’d told Hermione on her first visit upstairs, it had ended badly when the charwoman emptied a dustbin with what George referred to as an “injudicious use of force.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irresponsible

**Author's Note:**

> Written after Book Six was published but before Book Seven ~~broke my heart~~ , in an imaginary post-series world.

“Boys,” said Hermione Granger, “I need you to get me drunk.”

George and Fred looked at her and then at one another. George hustled the last of the afternoon’s customers out the front door, and Fred hustled Verity out the back door with a cheerful, “Go home early for once.” Three minutes after the words had left her mouth, Fred and George stood at attention before her.

“Firewhiskey?” George said.

“We have wine, too,” Fred said. 

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do, I brought three bottles of that red Australian stuff up to the flat four days ago—”

“And that was four days ago. We drank two bottles last night.”

“You drank a bottle and a half, I drank a half a bottle—”

“I think you’ve got it backward—”

“And anyway I saw another bottle when I was looking under the sink for—”

“Boys.” Hermione was smiling. 

They swiveled their heads to look at her. “Yes?”

“Let’s just go upstairs, shall we?”

Fred and George’s flat was cluttered and generally smelt rather pleasantly of gunpowder and turpentine, the odd, comforting whiff of knotgrass or hellebore punctuating upon occasion. They’d once allowed someone in to clean but, as George’d told Hermione on her first visit upstairs, it had ended badly when the charwoman emptied a dustbin with what George referred to as an “injudicious use of force.”

“Smoke everywhere.”

“Bit of a hole in the roof.”

“Nothing unusual for a Wednesday afternoon.”

“But she seemed a bit put out.”

“Refused to come back.”

“We got her to St. Mungo’s before her nose had even grown across the floor.” George had winked and refilled Hermione’s glass. “Dunno why she threw such a fit.”

Today there was an herbal sort of a scent hanging about the flat, and Hermione sniffed appreciatively. “That’s quite nice,” she said, “working on something new?”

“Something for the witch who wants a bit of a boost in the bedroom,” Fred said, yanking his magenta shop robes over his head and tossing them haphazardly at the corner; he wore jeans and a t-shirt that said _I’m not easy, I’m horizontally accessible_ , as well as trainers that had matched his violet robes, but didn’t quite manage the trick with the green t-shirt. 

“Or the wizard,” George tacked on, hurrying to close the door to the room on the other side of the lounge, throwing his own robes through the door; his maroon t-shirt said simply _Tasty_.

Hermione had tactfully never mentioned the fact that the twins apparently still shared a bedroom, but speculation on the subject had passed many a pleasant private hour for her. “You two would fit right in at the Muggle clubs,” she mused to herself as she shrugged off her own pale green robes. “Amazing that your parents are so hopeless at passing.”

“How are things at St. Mungo’s these days?” asked George from the kitchen. 

“Yes, how are the studies going?” Fred took Hermione’s hat and cloak and hung them by the front door, then leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Any interesting maladies? Deformities? Spells we should steal for the shop? And how’s our idiot brother?” He hugged her with one arm.

“Oh, well.” Hermione laughed, sounding rather more strained suddenly. “An idiot, as usual. As far as I know.” The twins looked at each other, George poking his head from the kitchen for the glance, then withdrawing again. “And things at St. Mungo’s are fine, though everything seems to be speeding up as my apprenticeship finishes.” She dropped her head against Fred’s chest and sighed. “I haven’t heard from Ron in three weeks, and I’m rather enjoying the quiet.” Fred’s arm tightened around her comfortingly.

“Fred, stop trying to seduce Hermione,” George said, coming in with a tray: a bottle and three glasses, and a half-eaten seedcake and two hastily washed plates, cutlery sliding about atop them. “Sit down, you look like you’ve been run through the wringer.”

“He just wants me to get out of the way so he has a chance,” Fred whispered into her ear, leading her to the sofa, still tucked under his arm. “But everyone knows I’m the handsome one.”

Hermione grinned and sank down onto the battered cushions. “Ah, lovely,” she said, sipping from the wineglass George handed her. “And I wish one of you would try to seduce me,” she added with a tired smile. “Be nice to know some Weasley or other thought me nice enough to make the effort.”

Fred looked at George and raised one eyebrow. George flicked an eyebrow back at him and they both settled onto the sofa, one on either side of her.

“Surely it can’t be as bad as all that,” George said. He leaned forward to cut her a slice of cake. “Eat, you look too thin.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you sound like your mum,” Hermione said with a snort.

“You should’ve heard him go on when I got bat blood on his trouser cuff,” Fred smirked, and she smiled again. “Listen, though, Hermione.” He gestured that she should eat while she listened, and she obeyed. “You know Ron will come round, he’s always done before, yeah?”

“He just has these occasional spells of acting like a complete prat,” George said, patting her leg. “He can’t help it, it happens to every other Weasley.”

“Bill married Fleur,” Fred said. “Then Charlie, he was cool.”

“Percy redefined the word prat.” George rolled his eyes. “Then we escaped.”

“And poor Ron was just next in line.” Fred shrugged and patted Hermione’s other leg as George poured more wine.

“Lucky Ginny,” Hermione said dryly, setting her empty plate aside to accept the wineglass again, raising it to her lips. 

“You have no idea,” they both said, and she laughed, then sighed again.

“No, I think that things are just never going to settle down for Ron and I,” she said calmly. “I’m tired of waiting for him to outgrow his—apparently genetically predestined,” she smiled, “pratitude.” She stared at the front door blankly for a moment, then threw back the rest of her wine in one quick swallow. “We do better as friends, Ron and I,” she said firmly.

“You certainly are quieter as friends,” George said after a pause.

“Does Ron know that?” Fred asked.

“Oh, well.” She smiled and pointed a quite steady finger at her glass. Fred and George both blinked as the glass began to refill. “Finite,” she murmured a moment later, and it stopped. “I told Ron that three weeks ago, and he agreed. After a bit of shouting, of course. We even parted on good terms.”

“Got rather good without your wand,” George said.

“And with unspoken spells,” Fred said.

She ignored them. “So anyway,” she said, after gulping another half a glass in one go, “yes, Ron knows I feel that way. I think I just needed,” she closed her eyes thoughtfully; opened them again, “twenty-two days and sixteen hours to actually know it myself.”

“What’re you going to do?” Fred said.

“We’d got used to the idea that you’d marry Ron,” George said. “Not to mention...”

“...Having you come round when you got fed up with St. Mungo’s,” Fred finished. “We like it.”

“We like you.”

“And it would’ve been nice to have a healer in the family.”

“And someone intelligent.”

“With a bit of common sense.”

“And pretty.”

“Other than Ginny.”

“Well, yes, but she doesn’t count.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“I,” said Hermione loudly, interrupting them, “am going to be irresponsible.”

That stopped them. They looked at her so skeptically that she laughed aloud and relented. “Well, a little bit, anyway.” There was an unfamiliar glint in her eye.

“What’re you going to do?” Fred sounded distinctly... nervous. Hermione’s lips curved up in a smile they’d never seen before, and she looked at him, and then George.

“Well, you fellows aren’t busy tonight, are you?”

They looked at one another. They looked at her, and first George, then Fred, swallowed.

“Well—”

“—no...?”

Hermione tilted her head and regarded them both. “And you aren’t irredeemably put off by the idea of sleeping with a female, are you?”

Another short pause, and Hermione Granger thought, with inestimable delight, that she might be the first person in the history of the world to see George and Fred Weasley blush. Fred and George, though, were looking over her head at one another, not at her.

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Once in a blue moon.”

They looked at her.

“Well, boys.” Hermione looked down at her lap, cheeks going pink. “I don’t want to marry anyone with the last name of Weasley, but I wouldn’t mind—” she glanced back up, and for an instant she was as wicked as they, “—a nice, friendly, cheerful... shag. With two good friends. Who happen to have,” she inhaled, “the last name of Weasley.”

 

It had been years since the inhabitants and shopkeepers of Diagon Alley gave any notice to the occasional explosions, crashes, bangs, or (slightly more mysteriously) moans that came from the flat above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. It was a well-established fact that the entrepreneurial shopkeepers did all their experimenting with potions, spells, and magical trinkets in their own abode, and though they sometimes sported black eyes for a few days, or limped, or had odd purplish-blue marks on their (long, pale, lovely) necks, they were unfailingly cheerful and amusing, and so their oddities and the assortment of startling noises their flat produced went, for the most part, unremarked upon.

 _And a good thing_ , Hermione thought later—much later, Fred snoring on one side of her, George sprawled on the other, at least three hands and two thighs resting on or against her bare skin—just before she fell asleep.


End file.
